


Dr Watson and the Ghost

by Small_Hobbit



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John Watson hears ghostly noises in 221B</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr Watson and the Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ Watson's Woes Challenge #026 Ghost Story
> 
> My thanks once again to my beta scfrankles

I am not normally a fanciful man and I am certainly not given to seeing ghosts, as some claim to be. It is true that there are some nights when in my dreams I see those of my regiment who did not return from Afghanistan, but I put these visions down to eating too much cheese too soon before bed. And besides which these are what I would term ‘internal’ ghosts and I doubt that I am alone in seeing them.

However, I do not hold with the popular concept of ghosts entering a property in order to haunt a person. I therefore put the following experience down to a large glass of claret and the conversation I heard Mrs Hudson having with the maid. It would appear that Lily was concerned because the butcher’s boy had told her there was a ghost that could be seen alighting from a carriage near the bakers and Lily was refusing to go for the bread. Mrs Hudson had told Lily that if she had sufficient time for listening to silly stories told by the butcher’s boy, then she clearly didn’t have enough to do and that there were always plenty of blankets needing hemming.

I had wished Mrs Hudson a good night as I continued on up the stairs and shortly afterwards made my own preparations for bed.

I had been asleep for a little while, when I woke to hear moaning from downstairs. This was followed by some rattling and then something creaked. I had been in a deep sleep and was therefore somewhat disorientated by the sounds. I half sat up, struggling to make sense of them. There was another moan, louder this time, and my sleep befuddled brain conjured up a picture of a ghostly form moving around downstairs.

A further crash, followed by another moan, saw me pulling the covers over my head. I lay there for a minute or so as I tried to decide the best course of action. As the only man currently in the house it was my responsibility to confront whatever was in our sitting room. It would not be right to expect Mrs Hudson, redoubtable though she was, to deal with it. And it suddenly occurred to me that if Lily believed there was a ghost in our rooms, not only would we have no bread, but she would refuse to bring us any meals. Accordingly I resolved to leave my warm bed and face the spectre.

As I crossed my bedroom the floorboards creaked and I believe I had half hoped this would deter the creature, but sadly that was not the case and indeed the moaning increased. I searched for a suitable weapon and decided upon a heavy candlestick, feeling that my service revolver would not be of any use. On reflection I am not sure that the candlestick would have done any good either, but one’s mind does not always work in an entirely logical form in such situations.

As I reached the top of the stairs I thought that my eerie visitor could perhaps be Holmes, but I dismissed the idea almost as soon as it came into my head. I was so used to Holmes wandering around in the middle of the night and the strange noises he made that it was quite unlikely that I would even have woken had it been him. And I was confident that had Holmes been at home he would already have been in the sitting room interrogating this unwanted visitor as to its purpose. No, I was on my own.

I descended the stairs as quietly as I could, not wanting to draw attention to myself. By the gaslight through the window I caught sight of a white shape, but even as I tried to make out what it was it gave a further moan and disappeared from sight. I shuddered and took a step forward, causing me to bang me shin on an upturned table. I stifled a curse and bent down to rub my leg. As I did so I felt something damp on the table and, raising my fingers to peer at them, I saw it was blood. A quick check of my leg with my other hand established it was not mine.

I am not sure what happened then. Perhaps it was the reminder of my internal ghosts, where so often I was trying to stem the blood flow without success. I was no longer wary of this apparition, but angry at yet more loss of life. I stormed across the sitting room, avoiding other items strewn in my way thanks to the lamplight, and flung open Holmes’ bedroom door.

The spectre was inside and I stopped in horror before it. But only for a moment. For this was no ghostly spectre, but the very human presence of Inspector Stanley Hopkins. He was standing in his shirt – I dimly recalled that I had passed a pair of trousers on my way across the sitting room floor – with blood dripping from a head wound.

He looked at me; although I am not sure he recognised who I was. “So tired,” he said. “I’m just going to sleep for a while.”

Instantly, the adrenaline which had brought me charging into the room changed to that of a surgeon about to enter battle in an operating theatre.

“No, my dear fellow,” I exclaimed, “sleep would not be a good idea. I need you to stay awake for now.”

Hopkins took a step towards me and I was about to assist him into our bathroom to begin cleaning his wound when I heard someone banging on the door to our rooms.

“Is everything all right, Dr Watson?” Mrs Hudson called.

I sat Hopkins on Holmes’ bed and went to open the door. “Inspector Hopkins has been hurt,” I said, “I shall need towels and hot water.”

Lily, who had been standing behind Mrs Hudson, firmly grasping a poker, said “I’ll go and put the water on at once, Doctor.”

I could hear my patient moaning and so went to attend to him whilst the ladies found what I had requested. Fortunately Hopkins started to respond to my questions, although he still seemed hazy about some of the details as to what had happened to him. When I was satisfied that he could sleep without risk I let him lie down and dragged a chair into Holmes’ room so that I could remain with him.

I must have dozed off, because I woke to find Holmes standing in front of me. He, too, looked slightly battered, but there was nothing is his appearance to cause me any alarm.

“Thank you for taking care of Hopkins, dear chap,” he said.

I refrained from telling Holmes what I had at first imagined Hopkins to be, contenting myself with expressing my surprise at finding him crashing around in our sitting room. Holmes explained that he had paid a cabby to bring Hopkins to Baker Street and had instructed the man to tell me that he would join us later.

“It would seem that he failed to pass any message on,” Holmes commented. “Why don’t you take yourself back to bed? I have no intention of sleeping for some while, so will keep an eye on your patient and let you know if he needs you.”

I thanked Holmes and started to leave. At which point he said, “Just one thing, Watson. Why is there a large candlestick on my bedroom floor?”


End file.
